


Dreams and Nightmares

by will_warin



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Battle of Five Armies Fix-It, M/M, Post-Battle of Five Armies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-12
Updated: 2015-05-12
Packaged: 2018-03-30 05:55:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3925363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/will_warin/pseuds/will_warin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They all say how lucky they were. They say it all ended well. But there is a difference between winning a battle and living happily ever after.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>*shows up for the unexpected anniversary weeks late with starbucks and a story about happy dreams, scary dreams, forgiveness and fireflies*</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Dreams and Nightmares

**Author's Note:**

> There is a paragraph with snapshots from the battle in the paragraph after _Some nights, he’s not so lucky._ in case you want to avoid it. Can somebody experienced in ratings tell me if it's enough to raise the rating/tag for graphic violence?

After his return to the Shire, Bilbo dreams of a battlefield. 

Some nights it’s the desolation at the Mountain, barren and grey and covered in a thin layer of snow or ice.

These nights he usually comes too late, too late to throw the rock to make Azog drop Fíli, too late to help Kíli and the elf ( _Tauriel_ , he remembers in the morning, but never in the dreams) to distract Bolg, too late to make Thorin realise that following the orc floating under the ice isn’t such a good idea.

It’s easier these nights, when he can just sit at the fireplace, a cup of tea in his hands and repeat to himself that it’s alright, that they are alive and will live for a long time still. 

He looks at the sparks in the fire and remembers Thorin talking about fireflies and warms himself with the thought that they all have the home they battled for.

Some nights, he’s not so lucky.

These nights the battlefield is rocks and shields and weapons, all covered in blood. A man screaming after he’s crushed under a wall until an orc slices his throat. An elf hit by an arrow mid-jump falling gracelessly to the ground, already dead. A dwarf with a sword wedged between his armour plates, pieces of bone still sticking to his axe. Thranduil’s deer covered in arrows like his mother’s pincushion, its blood running down between orc bodies like a river, red and black and red and red and red. (When he’s awake, he can name all the shades and colours. In the dream, they are all called red and it is terrifying.) 

These nights, the heat of the fire smells like a dragon and no tea in the world can stop him from shaking. He falls asleep in the morning, curling up in his armchair and doesn’t go out for the rest of the day unless absolutely necessary, because every broken branch sounds like a snapping bone and the beats of a blacksmith sound like a clash of weapons and every loud shout of greeting sounds like a warning of danger.

In the summer, when the sun is high and no amount of wind or draft can stop the heat, the dragon comes to the battlefield. 

He stays up late these nights, reading a book or scrubbing the floor for the hundredth time because if he’s tired enough, he won’t dream of Smaug calling him a liar and then turning into Thorin and calling him a traitor in exactly the same voice. 

But as the autumn comes and the nightmares come less and with more days between them, Bilbo starts to remember. Not the big things, he’s been telling them over and over again. Curious neighbours, polite (and less polite) relatives, they all asked about what he did in the year they thought him dead. And of course, fauntlings want to hear the story with the trolls, spiders and _the bees at Beorn’s were this big_ every time they see him walk by.

No, it’s the small things he remembers these days. The quiet evenings by the campfire, back when it was safe enough to set it. Laughing at whomever mixed up Fíli and Kíli this time. The dwarfs taking bets at anything and everything possible. Foodfights. Pinecone fights when they got too far from any town to waste food. The first look at the Mountain from the Carrock. The moment when the mist parted and they could see it from the lake, so, so close that everyone went silent. The handkerchief joke going on for _ages_ , all the way to Erebor and even when he was leaving Bofur gifted him with the most hideous rag he could find because _we can’t let you to leave without a proper hanky, can we?_ The smell of needles in the morning. The memories the tries to avoid these days, because they… 

But as the autumn turns to winter and even calm life in the Shire stills, Bilbo finds himself missing his friends. His dwarf friends. His… the only people outside of his closest family that actually _knew_ him. There are letters of course, but with everyone busy rebuilding Erebor and the distance between there and here… 

His home is too quiet these days and it scares Bilbo more than the great white warg.

He misses his friends. And his… friends. In days like these he ends up in an endless loop of would haves and could haves and he always knew he didn’t have a chance, why did he ever dare to hope otherwise? When did it go so terribly, terribly wrong?

It always ends up with arguing about the Arkenstone. Bilbo tries to keep it in his head at first, but as the winter drags on, more and more often he paces around his house arguing aloud about the blasted stone with himself and Thorin and Balin and well, everyone until his voice gives out and his shouts turn into sobs.

It’s always Thorin, in the end, that makes Bilbo stop the argument. Thorin laying on the ice covered in blood from the cut across his body as Azog jumped out of the water and slashed at him, before Thorin struck the Orcrist into his neck. 

Because it doesn’t really matter anymore, does it? He did what he though was the best way to stop the war, and the battle still happened. He did what he thought was the best way to help his _friend_ and in the end… they parted in friendship. They parted in friendship twice, because even the dratted oaf of a Durin was reasonable enough not to die of blood loss and exhaustion regardless of how close he got to that.

(“Why didn’t you make him wear proper armour instead of the… chain bathrobe he had on?” he asked Dwalin once, after a very long night when Thorin’s fever refused to drop for hours.  
  
“We didn’t expect to survive,” made him wish he’d never asked at all.)

In the end, it doesn’t really matter. Because they... They’ll never see each other again, unless one of them makes the journey across a half of the continent and Thorin will never have the time for that and Bilbo… Bilbo’s place is in the Shire with his books and plants and armchairs and all the bloody things the ridiculous dwarf had to name as he was… blacking out because of the blood loss.

_He could have been dead and you’re still mad at the things he did to you. But in the end it doesn’t really matter anymore._

In the spring Bilbo travels to Rivendell before the woods are filled with fireflies. He packs his handkerchief (among all the other things) and reassures his relatives that it’s just a vacation this time and he definitely intends _not to get eaten_ and _to come back_. 

He reads books and talks to the elves and eventually, he starts telling the story no one in Shire wanted to hear. The story about being a part of something bigger than you, about how luck is sometimes the only thing between you and a very long fall, about how little is enough to turn everything into a tragedy. There’s always someone to sit with him when the nightmares come and sometimes, they tell him about the nightmares of their own.

Bilbo learns about wars centuries ago, about shame and guilt and pain that last as long as that. He finds out how orcs are made from elfs and he has nightmares about that then, about being trapped somewhere cold and dark until he turns into something terrible. He thinks about the Gollum creature these days, about what could have happened to make him the way he is. 

_How much does it take to turn you into a nightmare? How strong do you have to be to get out of it?_

One day he finds himself on the balcony where they talked about fireflies and darkness. Where they listened to Gandalf and Lord Elrond talk about much bigger darkness with no fireflies. A shadow of the anger he felt back then returns to him because how _dare they_ doubt Thorin, when he… proved them both right and wrong within a couple of days.

_But it doesn’t matter anymore, does it? It… It doesn’t matter that he nearly died, because he hurt you so much and some wounds take ages to heal. And you hurt him too._

As spring turns into summer Bilbo finds himself practising elvish and swordfight and beating everyone at conkers with last year’s seeds he found in one of the storage rooms. He helps with cooking and with sweeping tree blossoms from the pavements and he realises he’s unwilling to leave. Still he sets out back to Shire, to arrive in time for harvest when everyone is at their merriest and busiest. 

He takes long walks in the autumn and this year the falling leaves don’t remind him of dragon scales anymore. But when he sees hobbits baking potatoes in the fields, the sparks from the fires look like fireflies. He walks away quickly these days, because would haves and could haves are sometime too hard to bear. 

He writes his book in the winter, just to have something to do. It’s bittersweet, really. Even with all the letters he’s got and written, he misses his friends more and more each chapter. He misses all the things he can’t write even more so. The sideway glances, the quiet smiles, the mutual agreements reached by a series of eyebrow movements. 

_But in the end it doesn’t even matter, does it? Because before he nearly died, you hurt him and he hurt you and you both said you were sorry and you parted in friendship._

The Bag End is shinier than ever and Bilbo can’t wait for the spring. He packs more thoroughly this time, making sure he’s bringing all that matters with him. His mother’s doilies are neatly folded at the bottom of his back near his book and all the thing he doesn’t talk about. 

He makes sure there always will be someone looking after his house when he’s gone, for time indefinite and _no, I still don’t plan on being eaten, thank you very much_. He waits for a couple of weeks then, enjoying the flowers blooming in his garden and birds singing in the trees and when the cherry tree in Primula’s garden starts shedding its blooms, he sets out on his way. 

It takes him a week in Rivendell before he finds the courage to ask the only question that still matters to him.

“Why didn’t you follow her? Why are you staying here when your wife is on the other side of the ocean?”

Lord Elrond looks at him for a long time and Bilbo fears he might have crossed one line too many this time, but then:

“My heart reaches for her every day, Master Baggins, but regardless of how long the evil has been quiet, I still believe there is work to be done in Middle Earth and I can’t leave until it’s over.”

Bilbo thanks him and slips into the night, thinking. He can’t sleep for a long time, but when he does, he falls asleep with a smile on his face.

He leaves Rivendell a couple of days later, claiming he realised he’s needed back at home. He doesn’t correct them when they wish him a happy return to the Shire, but he stops in Bree and waits for a caravan from the Blue Mountains heading east. He makes up a different story to every dwarf who asks him, until they start coming up with their own. As they pass through Mirkwood in the autumn, he beats them all in conkers.

They make it to Erebor at the beginning of winter when the Mountain is filled with laughter and joy of Durin’s Day celebrations and the lamps hanging everywhere glimmer like fireflies.

Bilbo is quite good at hide and seek even without the ring, so it takes the Company a whole afternoon before they find him. He’s afraid they’ll break his rib with all the hugging. But in the end, he’s sitting in their private dining room watching Bofur throwing eggs at Bombur and Nori pouring beer into Oin’s trumpet and it’s like he’s never left at all. Fíli and Kíli have recovered from their injuries and even Thorin looks tired but well.

They all have thousands of questions but let Bilbo retire for the night. The following days are a blur of tours through the Mountain and introductions. He suspects it might even take a fortnight before he starts muttering something about blasted dwarves and wondering why on earth he has ever come here. Well, of course, that also depends on one more thing. 

“We thought you might want to set up a garden here, if you ever come back,” Fíli shows him a small terrace overlooking a side of the mountain with a very tangible hope in his voice and Bilbo makes it known he spends some time up there after the dinner and waits until the one last thing comes to happen.

Of course, when Thorin finally shows up, Bilbo nearly chokes on his pipe. He moves to the side of his impromptu bench, so that _the king_ can sit next to him and for a while, they smoke in silence.

Long enough for Bilbo to remember that Dwalin and Nori win this round of bets. The thing no one could know to bet on is how many smoke rings of time in silence Bilbo is willing to give Thorin to find his words. After the sixth one, he starts himself.

“Do you remember Rivendell? When you told me about how you thought the fireflies above your head were stars?”

He notices the startled jerk of Thorin’s shoulders only thanks to months spent by careful observation, back when he didn’t believe he had a chance at miracles. But sitting here is a wonder of its own.

“I do remember the night and the talk. Why are you asking?”

“It’s just… I only saw them like that when I was a child. As flying stars. After my tweens, I never really walked into the woods after dark anymore. But then I was kept at a family celebration and when I walked home late that night, they were everywhere, laying on the ground along the path. I remember thinking _this is how the most precious jewels must look like_ , all shine and glow and silver light. But then I walked among the actual gold and jewels in the Mountain and it was the scariest week of my life.”

Thorin’s back tenses at that and Bilbo clutches his pipe for courage.

“Then why did you come back? Why didn’t you stay in the safety of the Shire?”

“I tried that, you know. I tried that very hard.” He can see Thorin turning to him in the corner of his eye, but Bilbo keeps looking ahead.

“I tried to be a proper hobbit and appropriately respectable, but do you know what they called me? Mad Baggins. A shame to the family name. Can you believe that?” 

He doesn’t realise he stood up in the heat of the speech until he nearly stabs Thorin with his pipe as he makes a gesture with his arm. 

“Sorry for that. The thing is, when I spent a couple of months in Rivendell, the only people who actually cared I was gone were my gardener, my cousin Primula, bless her heart, and the dreadful Lobelia in her hunt for silver spoons. ”

He looks at Thorin, who in turn looks at a patch of dirt at his feet. At least he managed to stand up as well, which is the smallest of mercies as Bilbo realises what Thorin’s next question will be.

“Why didn’t you stay there then? You’ve always said you liked elves.” And it’s the sadness at the last word instead of the usual disdain that nearly breaks Bilbo’s heart all over again.

“Because there is work to be done here,” he goes for the safest of his reasons. 

“And I promised to help you to get your home back, you know. And even though you’ve done a great job with the renovation, I still think I might be useful. From what I’ve seen so far, you definitely need to eat more green food.” 

Thorin tries to shield his face with his hair, but still, his smile feels brighter than the sun in a fireplace. Bilbo allows himself a moment of warmth before going on to the other thing that needs to be said. 

“I also wanted to say I forgive you. Properly, this time, not because you’re dying or because your fever is so high we’ve run out ice to cool you down, but because I do. Really. Forgive you. The thing you did at the battlements and all around that. And I think you should forgive yourself too.”

He raises his eyes just in time to see the dwarf move and just like that, he’s held in a crushing hug again, barely able to breathe. He strokes Thorin’s back and waits, waits until Thorin’s breath evens out and he lets out a huff of a sob or a sigh or laughter or something in between.

Thorin pulls away, eternities later, bringing their foreheads together and Bilbo forgets to breathe for a moment at the intimacy of the gesture.

“I do forgive you, Master Burglar; Bilbo, not because I think I’m dying or because the memory of trying to throw you down from the gate is haunting every moment I’m not too weak to stay conscious, but because I mean it from the bottom of my heart. And I hope that being the smarter of the two of us, you already have forgiven yourself. ”

Bilbo wants to kiss him right there and then, but everything is still too fresh, too fragile. He takes his hand instead, slides his head to lean it on Thorin's shoulder and says:

“Well, I … well. On the better of days, maybe. But you’re lucky Balin didn’t hear you say that, because he’d sure make this day a national holiday.” 

“Of me admitting I’m wrong?” Bilbo can feel Thorin’s voice vibrate through his collarbone and it fills his chest with warmth.

“Of you admitting there is someone smarter than you.”

“Oh. That does happen sometimes. Occasionally. Exceptionally.”

“Once every two hundred years.”

“I’m not _that_ old yet, you know.”

“I do in fact. That’s the _point_. ” 

They sit back on the bench and spend the evening talking, until the chill chases them back inside. When he’s closing the door outside Bilbo glances at the sky and smiles.

The stars look like fireflies.

**Author's Note:**

>  ~~this is more OOC every time I read it, but it made sense some time ago, so I'm trusting past!me because~~  
>  If I don't post it now, I will never do it.
> 
> Also, this is how studying for a spectroscopy exam looks like and a sort of fix-it for another thing I wrote, which is like 100 times more feels than this.
> 
> The fireflies come from a promt for #anunexpected anniversary and Richard talking about the scene in Rivendell. Everything else just happened around that.
> 
> _And even though I can't really find the energy to reply to comments I love you all for your kind words and **still** kudosing from time to time._


End file.
